(x = space)
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On the First Day
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It’s Sunday
The day Al Roker
Announces in
An echo chamber
I’m not sure why
Maybe his mother
Told him to
Maybe because
It’s game day
I’ll have church
In a little while
Service and Sunday
School in a virtual
(and, yes,
hopefully virtuous)
Way
And the day will continue
We’re expecting snow
In the afternoon,
Over night into
Monday morning,
Which could make
The commute
A mess
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C L Couch
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Photo by alexey turenkov on Unsplash
Published 1h ago
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(x = space)
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Chaotica
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Lord,
It’s a good day
For normal praying
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In churches everywhere
There will be choruses
That say it right
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But my prayer
Is cacophony,
Nothing regular
Or regularly rhythmed out
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I hope you will forgive that,
All the off-pitch, off-key
Murmuring,
Uneven humming through
The perfect angel-layering
Of formal prayers
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But I need you;
I need your company
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You could simply sit close by,
And maybe we’d say nothing
To each other
And somehow know
Eternity is hearing
Everything as it should
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Everything that’s needed
To respond just right
To an uneven,
Lopsided,
Person praying badly
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Out of place
In whatever place
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C L Couch
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Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash
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(x = space)
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Apologies
(and Philippians 4:8)
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Oh, dear, it’s Sunday
And there’s nothing in my
Sometimes Protestant, suburban mind
To share
I didn’t pay attention to the sermon
(too many points)
Or the meaning of the lyrics
(one broad and unconvincing point),
Though I’ll say the problem
Is inside my head,
What’s left of my heart
And there are those who had their
Sabbath, starting Friday,
And those who have a time for
Sabbath every day
I could envy
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And is there something I can say?
Think on these things
With the Philippians,
Which might be a good list
For anyone
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C L Couch
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Photo by Dariusz Mejer on Unsplash
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(x = space)
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Tell the Beadle
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I had church today with friends
Five hundred miles from here,
And I am thankful
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I’m not sure what it means or
How it counts, and I guess mostly
I don’t care
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There was prayer and conversation,
And God was mentioned many
Times and Jesus
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I think if there were an attendance
Book, our names could be
Fairly entered
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As it is, computers have recorded
In theirs pathways our participation so
Cybernetic stars
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C L Couch
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Sayq, Ad Dakhiliyah Governorate, Oman
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(x = space)
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Frozen Yellow Rose
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Is this a prose-poem or an essay or a Sunday homily (the text would be the Good Samaritan)? I don’t know, but here it is. Something I heard at church from those who were there. I mean, were there in Houston.
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here’s what happened in Houston (Texas, USA) yesterday:
most homes do not have fireplaces and instead rely on electricity to power furnaces for heat and appliances for cooking and computers, but the power grid is out, it’s blank in Houston;
in grills or in makeshift places, Duralogs were burned and any wood that could be found or any charcoal left from summer or, indeed in a deep Southern place, the last time there was a barbecue;
the feeling was post-apocalyptic
there was a certain grocery store that powered up enough generators to preserve food and to allow people inside safely, though the numbers who could enter at a time were severely limited (because there is a pandemic raging ‘round the world and through Houston); this meant that there were thousands outside the store in line, waiting for their turn;
keep in mind it’s extra winter there just now, the temperature having gone into the teens during the day;
the manager of this grocery store or maybe it was the owner, walked up and down the line outside and said to folks, if you can’t pay for your groceries just now, don’t worry—get what your family needs, bread and baby food and such;
according to those who were there, this kind of thing was happening all over the city
coda
this does not account or provide sustenance for those assailed by the crisis of collapsing glacial ice in India that has stolen the lives of scores of people; this does not take care of COVID-19 or provide vaccine, something that the world sorely needs; this does not answer all the problems and frankly all the disasters that we suffer with here and there on planet Earth; it is a single story, and maybe we could let it have the power of a single story, which like creation stories or apocalypses or “The Gift of the Magi” or “The Artist of the Beautiful,” can be, well, pretty powerful
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C L Couch
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Power Failure: How a Winter Storm Pushed Texas into Crisis
Around 2 a.m. Monday, the full measure of the crisis Texas faced began to be apparent. Cold and ice had set in the day before, leading to spreading power outages across the state.
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Photo by Vlad Busuioc on Unsplash
Downtown, Houston, Texas, United States
drone view of a city
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(x = space)
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The Book of Numbers
(in pandemic time)
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Lots of twos and ones
Tomorrow
And a zero,
And there could be church:
I think I’d cherish
Learning someone else’s
Story
If in a cyber way
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To understand
How a narrative fits
Into the weaving,
The puzzle
Of the one great story
In which we each
Have a page
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Monochrome
Or colorful
Burnt along the edges,
Gilded for the saints
After all the torn-up
Parts have been
Repaired
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Not a book of judgment
Not a cache of
Clever evidence;
Rather the story of us
In part
And all the rest of us
And God inside, above
With tired angels
Tirelessly binding
Fixing binding
All the time
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C L Couch
(for 2/21/2021)
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Photo by Paulius Dragunas on Unsplash
Antelope Canyon, United States
Ladder to Nowhere
(reasonable skeptic)
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(x = space)
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Beadling
(pandemic time)
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It’s Sunday
I thought it was Saturday
Maybe you’re having this problem, too
So I should think church
(good Catholic or Protestant
Christian)
And I do
Though I don’t think I’ll go
Until the year of doing nothing
Has expired
Nothing but science and care
I do what I can
Pray for them
Send bits of money
Wait
Wish it were all over
For the living to be living
More fully
Perhaps more mindfully
Again
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C L Couch
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(a beadle, church officer, bearing
a rod with a feather at one end and a heavy ball
or other weight at the other
not for adults do we spare the rod
depending on how deeply was the parishioner
snoozing, he or she got one end or the other)
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Such a Church in Louisville, Kentucky
I hope it is still there
The black church I attended Sunday morning
Louisville in 1983
We were the only white folk there
The service went for hours (yes, it did)
And we were made so welcome
I’d like to have stayed for hours more
For Presbyterians, there was a lot of moving
Clapping and the singing was fantastic
Because they meant it
(it was tuneful, too)
The praying must have gone straight to heaven
Having made faithful conduits
Such an ordinary feature
We would have more meetings
Take our leave and go our separate ways
But we were together, then
Sinews in a toned body of
A holy congregation ‘round the world
When such people meet for such a purpose
Holy, holy, holy
C L Couch
Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash
Blessed Insurance
(for anyone on Sunday morning)
I sing this while
My world falls apart
My older child might run away
My job is on the line
The car needs so much work
I haven’t seen or felt
My partner smile, really smile
In a while
I don’t want to know
The balances
I can’t think about what happens next
Can’t think about what else
The church organ might be better
Suited at a ball park
The pastor tries to sing along
I think I see the words on the page
There is no harm in singing, too
I guess
Who hears, who cares
I know it isn’t that bad
C L Couch
Image by PhotoGrafix from Pixabay
note on me
I’m not in the hospital anymore. I’ve been diagnosed with infections and am taking an antibiotic. I still feel lousy. Maybe less? It’s hard to tell. Thank you for your prayers! They are potent.
clcouch123 
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